For Wide Justice
by Rhyolight04
Summary: Sherlock and Lestrade have helped one another before and will again, but this one's a classic. Takes place in 2001; warnings for obsolete technology.


Whatever else happens, Lestrade told himself, don't let him know you're a cop.

Lestrade didn't look like a cop right now; he looked almost as bad as what he was pretending to be, one of the rich man's customers after days or weeks. Lestrade's hair was purposely scruffy, all of him unwashed for long enough to give the right air of personal indifference.

The manufactured track marks must not be particularly convincing, or he doubted they would have decided to take him, beat him unconscious, and unexpectedly, dump him at their boss's feet. Or maybe they were perfectly convincing, and that was why he was still alive, waiting for…attention.

If something had gone wrong, it was not as wrong as it might have been, because Lestrade was still alive, and how many times had he worked that out, now?

His head hurt, and he was cold, and his jacket was gone. Though he knew where he was — one of the worst possible places, with certainly one of the worst possible men, and a Rottweiler, a couple of guards, a distracting amount of coke and heroin and pills and what must be an almost equal weight in cash—he had no idea where _that_ was.

Or whether he were where someone might find him, if he were where he might get out from and back to the living world.  
Which, wherever it was, this wasn't. Tiled walls, tiled floor, and grime. His head had left a smear of nearly-clean on the wall beside him.

People came, and talked deferentially, and left, clutching as they did little bags of forgetfulness. Lestrade wondered how one would taste. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had anything to eat or drink; it seemed he was to lie there forgotten himself, an unwanted parcel. He was beyond memorising faces; he was beyond recognising them, he suspected.

Or apparently not, unless this was a hallucination. "Who's a _lovely_ boy then?" said someone to the dog. Or possibly to Lestrade. No, the dog was eating something while this visitor, whose shoes were clean, whose trouser legs—all Lestrade could see of him—preserved their crease and a scent of something other than stale diesel.

"Here, you have a biscuit too," said Sherlock Holmes, idly casting a McVitie's onto Lestrade's chest. His mouth was not quite too dry after all; Lestrade managed to get his lips onto it, crunch it down. The twisting hurt; rib gone, probably.

"I didn't think you sold people, just the means to get their souls," Sherlock was saying to the man behind the table. "What's he doing here?"

Lestrade wondered the same thing about him. The last he'd heard, Sherlock was spending his twenty-fourth birthday at a very nice facility in the Cotswolds. Didn't look like the treatment had taken. Damn, though—dealing? On a scale where he met with _this_ man?

"A couple of my people didn't like the way he looked at them."

"Well he's a banker or something in the City, they can't help looking like that. What were you going to do with him?"

"What's it to you?"

"Quite a lot actually, he's becoming a useful part of my distribution network. Appetites for all kinds of things in his office. How the hell am I supposed to be able to sell my share if you disappear my clients?"

"He doesn't look like he'll blend into an office just at the moment."

"Letting himself go a bit, mm. Have you been sampling more than you've been selling, Greg?"

The use of his actual name sent a jolt through Lestrade and gave him enough energy for a retort. "What the fuck is it to you as long as you get paid?" he managed to say, meeting Sherlock's eyes. As usual, they were the colour of ice and just as warm.

"I thought we understood the rate you were getting meant it wasn't all to go up _your_ nose. You won't be any use to me if you get fired. Well. Not economic use."

"It was a bad couple of weeks, that's all," Greg said. "Not a regular thing."

"You got him to say more than I did," the rich man told Sherlock. "We hadn't really had time, of course."

Sherlock's face warped into a familiar expression. Lestrade hoped to hell he wouldn't make the remarks that usually accompanied it; drug lords weren't any happier about being called incompetent, imbecile, or idiotic than police officers.

"What I understand of this business is that you do better not falling into sloppy habits," he told the man behind the desk. "Look at where they've got him. If you're not in the habit of kidnapping do you really want to start? Give him to me. One loose end, free with every five hundred grams. You could do a promotion. If you have that many loose ends."

"See you don't turn into one yourself," the dealer told him. "Kerby and I will tear you to pieces and throw you into the Thames." He patted the Rottweiler roughly.

From the way the dog was watching Sherlock, the only thing Kerby would tear up was packaging. Lestrade hoped it wasn't equally obvious to the dog's owner. People didn't like it when you seduced their loved ones.

"Let me have him and I'll take my package and stop wasting your time," Sherlock said. "He's no use to you." Everyone, including Kerry, looked at Lestrade.

"I think you _like_ him," said the other man. "He looks as though he might clean up nicely."

"Bit old," Sherlock said dismissively. "Perhaps. But like I said, sloppy habits? His money and his contacts are more useful to me. And harder to find, honestly."

"I shouldn't wonder." The man flicked through a pile of bills and sighed, pushed a parcel into Sherlock's hands. It vanished into a pocket of Sherlock's Burberry. The coat looked to be older than he was. "Well. Your money's still good, I have to give you that. But I think you need a lesson in deference. You can have him, but it'll be something of a trust walk."

"What do you mean?"

"You go first. I'll let him follow you. But no looking. You look even once behind, I keep him."

"How is he supposed to find his way out of this place? I don't have any twine on me—"

"He'll have to keep you in sight, I imagine. No one'll stop him."

"Assuming he can even walk—how long have you had him?"

"That's his problem. Take it or leave it. And no talking to him, either." The rich man gestured to one of the guards. "Ferris—you heard what I said. Get 'Greg' up on his feet, keep them company."

The guard hauled on Lestrade's shoulder. He staggered, then found his footing, blood rushing away from his head and prickling unpleasantly in his wrists. "Untie my hands?"

"We'll untie every string in your body if my people see you looking at them again," the dealer said. "You have a supplier, no need to be looking elsewhere is there? Stick close to your posh friend and keep your nose clean. Wash all over, actually." He turned to Sherlock. "You, Vernet. Start walking. I'll see you next week if you don't lose your nerve. Ooh, no snappy comeback? I like this already."

Sherlock looked once more at Lestrade, assessing. Lestrade wondered himself if he were up to this, whatever this was.

Sherlock turned on his heel and walked, about half his normal stalking speed, toward what Lestrade could now see was a tunnel entrance. Fuck it, they were in the Underground. Should have let the spelunkers map it and open it years ago. The Transport Police said they had enough on their hands with the working routes, and preferred to let the World War II tunnels and the weird shit from the Cold War and who knew the hell what else mind themselves. It was supposed to be sealed. These things never were.

It wasn't so bad as long as the light from the rich man's—strongroom? Distribution centre?—played out into the tunnel, Sherlock's form still faintly different from the darkness surrounding him. As the light faded, Lestrade had a harder time keeping his balance. "Wait a minute," he said to Ferris, loudly enough he knew Sherlock could hear. His wrists were tied—no, zip-stripped—low enough that he managed to get first one leg, then the other, through the circle of his arms—ah, God, his elbow. Much easier with his hands in front of him. Which was good, because the darkness was almost total now. Ahead of them, a penlight beam skittered across a wall, chose a left-hand branch.

"Scenic route, just our luck," muttered the guard.

"You could tell him the quicker way," Lestrade suggested.

"I don't think so, no."

At least he wasn't so cold anymore. Amazing, the way little improvements lifted his heart. But he still hurt and he was still hungry and thirsty and after the second staircase he was sure the rib was broken. He stumbled and either cursed or cried out, depending on how much pride you thought he had. His foot hit something soft, dead rat? (Don't whine like that) No—something almost echoed when he kicked it again. Lestrade bent over, painfully, touching wool, hearing a crinkle—Sherlock's scarf, half a packet of digestive biscuits and a bottle of water—half-full—wrapped in it.

"I'm pretty sure you shouldn't have that," remarked the guard.

"He didn't talk. Did you see him look?"

"No…"

"You want a biscuit?"

Food and water helped, but it was a cold, and dark, and aching journey, and Lestrade began to think he was off his head; it never seemed to end, he had been walking, climbing, straining his eyes for a pinprick of light once in a while for years. Who would keep office hours so far from the rest of the world? Then the air changed; he got a lungful of what seemed to be pure diesel exhaust, and the coughing nearly tore him apart. He leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath, and coughed and coughed, and feared he would throw up.

"You all right?" asked the guard.

"I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to care," Lestrade wheezed.

"Your friend breaks the rules, I have to get you all the way back down to himself, don't I?"

"You don't have any of the product on you? Cocodamol?"

"Never touch it. You shouldn't be thinking of that at a time like this, you know."

"I just ache all over. We anywhere near the end?"

"Not the way he's taking us, no."

Lestrade wondered whether Sherlock could hear them. He wondered whether he really wanted Sherlock to try a different route, possibly getting them lost. He wondered whether it were still really Sherlock he was following, or whether it was some other shadowy figure with a penlight. An occasional penlight. A yellowing, dimming penlight.

Then there was no shadowy figure. There was nothing but blackness ahead, and he'd been walking for who knew how long completely blind. And how would Sherlock know if he left them behind? Their footsteps made almost no sound, nothing that carried except perhaps his breathing. Sherlock made no sound Lestrade could hear at all.

"Is he still there?" Lestrade asked the guard, as much to hear anything as for an answer.

"No idea."

"Can you shine a torch or something up ahead, just give me an idea?"

"I don't think so, no."

Lestrade reminded himself that panic would not improve matters. He thought about coughing again, just to let Sherlock know where he was, but the pain when he inhaled was enough to change his mind.

"Look out," the guard said, just as Lestrade walked into a wall. "You really can't see a thing, can you?"

"Can you?"

"Enough to know there's a wall. Now, right, or left?"

Nothing to go on. Go on, just go, maybe trip this placid idiot—Sherlock was rubbing off on him—and make a daring escape, with his hands zip-tied together, no light, and no ideas…no.

Then he heard, of all things, a violin. It came from a tinny little speaker far away, sounding worse in the echoing tunnel, but it came clearly from the right. Lestrade took heart, and followed. The measures of the music did something for his feet; he was able to go a little faster, into a corridor where a tall thin figure walked ahead of them holding a very dim light; it looked like a mobile phone, but Lestrade had never heard of one that played music. Tiny tape recorder?

Sherlock paused to light a cigarette before opening a door, lingered in the doorway, left a glove between the frame and the latch, another flight of stairs, up, another door and LIGHT, daylight, people walking-

"I'll leave you now, mate. Thanks for the biscuit. Stay out of our way—" and Lestrade stumbled through one final doorway into Sherlock's back.

The music, mostly swallowed in the street noise, cut off. Sherlock caught Lestrade up and set him gently against a wall while he sawed at the zip-strip. Lestrade could move his arms properly at last, swinging them, orienting himself. Late afternoon.

"That was unpleasant," Sherlock said, folding away his knife.

"Bit, yes. I thought we'd never get out. The guard-type said you took the scenic route."

"Let's not talk right here. Can you walk any farther? A&E? Pub? Charing Cross nick, return you to your uniformed family?"

They all sounded good. "Pub's the closest. I want food and drink." They crossed the street; the sun felt good even if it was still shocking to his eyes. "What day is this?"

"Should it have been the A&E? It's Thursday. When did they catch you?"

"Yesterday afternoon, but I lost track."

"Two ploughman's, two pints of lemonade and two glasses of water, thanks. And some paracetamol for my friend," Sherlock said to a waitress while guiding him to a table. "Now, Lestrade, were you supposed to be there or should I tell you how bad illegal drugs are for you? Slowly with that—" as Lestrade drank half the water. The waitress, looking a bit askance at his scruffiness, brought three paracetamol and Lestrade swallowed them with the rest of the water.

"Can I use your phone—no, first, what the hell, Sherlock? The last I heard, you were in rehab and I'm very grateful but dealing on that scale just isn't something I can overlook—"

"Honestly, Lestrade, do you think I could get my hands on that much money?"

"If you were dealing the way you said you were, yes—"

"Boring." He dropped his voice further. "I'm working with Arundhati in Vice, all right? I have all the contacts, someone might as well use them."

"Look, you're an addict, you oughtn't be around the stuff, what the hell was Arundhati thinking?"

"I'm not that kind of addict, do you see me going off with my hundred grams to the loo with a syringe?"

"A hundred grams would kill half the people in this room, I don't ever want to find you like that—"

"I'm careful!"

Lestrade looked at him.

"I mean, I was careful. Since, obviously, I don't do it any more."

"You're not even bothering to lie. How the hell did you get out of rehab?"

"I behaved myself. Proving that I can. It surprised everyone. Honestly, I've been clean for five months now, I can show you the blood-work. Talking with Vice was my brother's idea; I think he believed I'd be 'scared straight'."

"Instead you end up undercover. Does Arundhati know you have a history?" Sherlock didn't answer. "You have a fucking death wish, that's what you have," Lestrade said.

"Speak for yourself. I thought you were in Homicide."

"The lines get blurred. I ought to let them know I'm alive."

"Eat something first, you look dreadful. Slowly now, chew it—"

"I don't need your advice!" Lestrade took as deep a breath as his ribs would allow. The bread and cheese were the best food he could remember. It was going to be good to be alive, or rather it already was; he just wanted the painkiller to kick in. "Thank you, you're right. And thank you for getting me out of there."

"I wasn't entirely certain it wasn't part of some deeper scheme, but the way you responded to having a biscuit thrown to you—did you get whatever information you were after?"

"Not really, I was trying to find out who would have sold to that woman, you must have seen the papers, the one—"

"-Fewer clothes than brains, which is saying quite a lot?"

"Yeah, that one."

"Her 'agent'. Publicist. Almost certainly lover. You should have asked me." Sherlock looked put out.

"Addict, drugs? Not good."

"Ideal, actually."

"No, it isn't. Did you get what _you_ were after, then, if it wasn't a personal errand to meet with the lord of London's bloody underworld?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Enough I should go see Arundhati. Get rid of this before someone picks my pocket."

"Speaking of pockets—you, carrying food? Eating?" Lestrade looked accusingly at the remnants of a ploughman's lunch on Sherlock's plate.

"They tell me maintaining a level of satiety makes me less liable to crave narcotics." Sherlock was plainly bored by the whole discussion, but Lestrade ignored him.

"You do look better with some flesh on your bones. And people talk more to a man who doesn't look like he might pass out at any moment, if you're going to keep up this detecting lark."

"Not. A. Lark."

"No, I know that, I have a solve rate that agrees with you, poor choice of words. You ought to get a website up, I hear they're all the rage. And what was that playing the violin? I never saw a Walkman that small."

"Different storage mechanism," said Sherlock, showing him the device. It was about the size of a pack of cards (or cigarettes) and heavier than it looked. "Prototype. One's meant to use earphones, the speaker's rubbish."

"I never heard anything that sounded better. I couldn't see anything at all."

"I suppose it's a way to capture an audience. Not really ready for one, I haven't got the tempo right—"

"That was you playing? What was it?"

"I'm trying to learn the piece, it's a Bach partita. Number One for Violin. It's an experiment, see whether listening to myself make mistakes helps me be aware the next time I'm playing."

"I didn't hear any problems, but I wasn't much of an audience. I might have noticed if you'd segued into the can-can or something—"

Sherlock actually laughed, very briefly. "More likely Monteverdi or Gluck."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, you know."

"That's nothing new."

/fin

* * *

Note: There were a few, a very few, mp3 players with external speakers when Sherlock was 24.


End file.
